Of Pawns and Kings
by hangman
Summary: [AU] An empire on the brink of destruction, a heir to the throne rebelling against ancient practices, and a prisoner who's beauty hides his inner strength; the heir saves the prisoner from certain death...for a price.
1. Prologue

Standing Disclaimer: I own none of the characters and I never will. 

_The old man tottered on his three legs, two his own flesh and one made of wood, as he struggled to walk silently to not disturb the youth meditating on the floor before him. The youth opened his eyes revealing wide gray eyes lashed in black._

"Grandfather," he said, his voice clear and true. "The city is teeming with blackness. It makes me afraid."

Of course it would, thought the grandfather. Why shouldn't it? A powerful empire on the brink of destruction ruled by a power hungry man. It was everything a rich ballad would hold except one: there was no hero. Not yet. 

"The world is still young, if she is healthy enough, she will withstand this violence." The boy felt a surge of disease.

"They're poisoning her, Grandfather."

"So they are. But a healer will arise, true and pure."

"No man can stop this," said the boy. His forehead creased. 

"So he will give his life to end it." The grandfather held out his free hand as the boy took it. Hand in hand, they walked boldly into the steadily weakening metropolis. The teeming mass of people that killed the earth slowly every day. 


	2. Chapter One

Author's Note: Although the setting of the story seems like the old roman empire, it is based on it but I've decided to make it completely AU in case I make historical mistakes.

~*~

Aragorn hurried through the halls, light filtering in through high bay windows, gilding the ground before him. His sanded feet made no noise. 

"My lord, the festivities will be starting soon," said a young boy, halting Aragorn in his steps. He looked down at the messenger, a fair child with golden curls and trusting brown eyes. No doubt he will be picked up by an aspiring artist wishing to capture the softness of a child in a sculpture or painting. Aragorn would, himself an artist, except he had no patience for a fidgeting child model. 

"I do recall," Aragorn said softly. "That watching men and animals being slaughtered is not festive." The boy flushed.

"But it is required of you, my lord, for you sit to the right of the emperor." 

"And it is a pity that it is true," he answered. "Tell our Caesar that I will be there shortly." The boy was gone in a flash. Aragorn sighed. He hated this barbaric practice of watching men fight to the death. But his presence was required. He will have to watch, stone-faced, as another fool-hardy man will face a lion and try to defeat the heavy mammal. He did not look forward to it, not at all.

~*~

The crowd was wild with anticipation as they demanded the fighter to appear. 

"What is going on?" questioned Aragorn. He was seated to the right of the emperor, a place of honor. The Caesar scowled.

"The fighter is a prisoner and I have heard that he is creating much trouble. He refuses to fight to death as a honorable man should do." Aragorn kept his tongue. 

Finally, a figure stepped into the arena. A slim, tattered form, shackles on his hands and feet. His handlers undid his chains and the ornate door before the prisoner started to open. Dirty gold hair still glinted in the sunlight and Aragorn could see by the prisoner's figure that he would make a fine model for a new painting he desperately wished to start. Pity he would soon be torn to pieces by the ruthless lion, bent on hunger and rage.

"And where did you find such a fine specimen, may I ask," said Aragorn, his eyes, flicking back and forth from the lone figure positioned at the center of the arena to the slowly opening door. 

"He is fine, isn't he?" the Caesar replied. "I myself would have liked to see him cleaned up. Rarely do we find such golden hair combined with the clearest blue eyes. But he is a true animal, turning upon every captor. He is a slave, Aragorn, from the old line of the S'mira tribes."

"That is not a tribe I have heard of," he commented. "Most tribesmen are dark are they not? How has he stayed so unblemished?" 

"You know how we are, proud and convinced that anyone who is not with our empire is a barbarian." 

"So you are admitting that he is not such one?" 

"How could he be? With splendid beauty…his people were far more advanced than we, Aragorn, though nary would we breathe such word. They were pacifists, dying out when we barely laid a finger upon them. They are all beautiful but I'm afraid he is one of the last. No longer will we have them to be admired."

"You speak as if they are a treasured line of animals," said Aragorn, through tight lips. 

"So they are, to us anyhow." Right as the Caesar finished speaking, by chance, Aragorn and the prisoner's eyes met briefly but Aragorn had caught the quicksilver spasm of fear flit across the clear eyes. It was gone in the next second and hardness replaced it, more fitting along with the perfect mouth set in a straight, unmovable line. 

"How much for the prisoner," said Aragorn, impulsively. 

"What?"

"How much for the prisoner. I wish to buy him, I need a new art subject." The Caesar shrugged.

"He is not for sale, he is entertainment to our people." A low growl emitted from the opening door. 

"I said how much for the prisoner. Find another form of entertainment, I _need_ this one." The Caesar gave him a sidelong glance.

"You know, brother, that I will give you anything with no payment, for your money is my money." Aragorn knew this. The Caesar was a ruthless, firm leader and showed no affection to any but his younger brother. Even with this affection, Aragorn could not bring himself to love the man sitting beside him.

"Then please, _give _me that prisoner." The Caesar finally came to his decision. 

"Release the prisoner," he ordered. The crowed started to boo and swear as the figure was ushered from the stadium.

"My people!" the Caesar cried. Aragorn knew that his brother would win over the crowd and didn't bother sticking around. He hurried from his seat and walked to the chambers just behind the arena doors where, no doubt, the prisoner would be. And so he was.

"Who are you," he said bluntly. He looked straight into Aragorn's eyes and, as Aragorn felt, into his mind. Aragorn shifted his weight in his feet. Up close Aragorn could see that he was truly beautiful, not just pretty as most artists' models ran these days. 

"I am the Caesar's brother, heir to the throne," he answered. "Who are you?" 

"Nobody you'd like to know," he spat out. Aragorn regarded him coolly.

"I beg to differ. Release him guards." And with a snap of his fingers, the man's shackles were removed and he fell to the ground. He picked himself up with bleeding palms and looked at Aragorn with suspicious eyes.

"I want him cleaned and sent to my rooms," Aragorn ordered. 

"You think you can order me about, like a pawn? That's all I'll be to you, your new toy. Don't think I don't know what goes on behind closed doors, _Caesar's brother_." Aragorn whirled around and looked the other man in the eyes.

"You forget your place, _slave_," he whispered.

"Hardly." They were standing so close that Aragorn could count the number of golden lashes on each of his eyes.

"My orders stand," said Aragorn, firmly, keeping his eyes on the other. He turned on his heel and left the room. In anger, the prisoner turned and slammed his fists into the wall, breaking skin. 

"Lad, he won't hurt you," said a guardsmen. Kind words sounded awkward upon his gruff tongue.

"Do what you must," he answered. 

~*~

a/n: thanks for reading, please R&R on your way out~* 


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